I have all the tools. right here. within me. surrounding me.
a million stories fighting between my ears, encircling each other and always changing, growing, moving.
this is pregnancy. or at least the talk of.
am i ready for children?
Am I ready to let the natural take its course, to open myself to the flow of words and lives and all the crazy, to let it come to the written world, to be given a permanence that will outlast my flesh body.
story story.
what stories.
which ones.
how?
when...
right now.
later.
never.
we can leave things behind. memories of us. ideas. inspirations and devils.
there are things to tell. worthy things. mixed up in stupid things.
can i separate them?
i have hardly come to tell the difference in my daily stream of thought.
the time i give to both.
a worship of simple and of sacred.
there are stories only i can tell. only you can tell.
born of our raw heart and years alive.
born of our mortality and short existence.
what is worthy?
what does it look like?
a children's poem or a dark tragedy?
a comic line or a brave memento?
all perhaps.
we are strange in our ways.
and this is not our choice.
we know little of the what and the why.
we make up tales and theories, dig up numbers and charts.
forgetting we are floating amongst stars.
forgetting the trees outlive us.
we explain the ocean, divorce, religion.
we control our datebooks and closets.
i came from dust.
or perhaps a rib.
this earth, my home.
but no, o no, not for long.
so what is worthy to tell?
what can i explain, express, reveal?
what will live on pages and what will never be born?
we shall see.
i hope.
a meaning lives amongst these words.
